Ethan
Frost is everything a woman could want in a man. He’s rich, gorgeous, powerful,
one of the most eligible bachelors in the world.

But
that’s not why I’m with him.

I
love Ethan for all the things no one else gets to see: his innate kindness, his
reckless spontaneity, his unwavering determination to use his brilliance for
good. I love the way he looks at me, the way he touches me. The way he makes me
forget the wreckage of my past and the twisted fear that still lives inside me.

But
sometimes it terrifies me how much I crave him, how much I need him just to
breathe. I always thought it would be my past that ruined us, but there’s a
darkness in Ethan I never dreamed existed. Can we survive as his secrets
surface—threatening to unravel us both?

All that work. All those hours and days of trying to move on. All
those assurances to myself that I had this, that I could do it. All of it blown
out of the water in one fell swoop.

Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.

He’s here, right here in front of me. And despite everything, it’s all
I can do not to fall straight into him.

I don’t know what to do, what to say, how to act. There’s a part of me
that wants nothing more than to run across the room and throw myself into his
lap. To bury my face in his neck and beg him to never let me go. To pretend
that the last two weeks never happened and that, somehow, someway, all the
pain, all the agony, was nothing but a nightmare gone awry.

But there’s another part—equally as big and equally as important—that
wants to run away. Or at least dive behind the nearest chair and not come out
until he’s gone. Until he’s no longer looking at me like he saw a ghost.

Or worse.

Of the two choices, the second is definitely the smarter one.
Humiliating, yes. Unprofessional, absolutely. But still so much better than
standing here remembering what it feels like to be held by him.

To be loved by him.

And yet, even knowing what a terrible idea it is, I can’t stop myself
from taking a step toward him, then another and another. In seconds, I’m
standing right in front of him, close enough to touch his soft hair and
smoothly shaven cheeks. Close enough to register the uneven rise and fall of
his chest beneath the navy silk of his shirt. More than close enough to feel
his heartbeat if I just reach out and stroke my hands down his chest as I’m
longing to do.

“Ethan.” His name is a tortured sound ripped from me, half whisper,
half sob, but I can see by the way his eyes narrow and his fists clench that he
hears me. Can tell by the way he looks at me that he understands all the things
I don’t have the words to say.

He doesn’t react for a long time, doesn’t so much as move a muscle.
Then, suddenly, he’s leaning forward in his chair, and I think that he’s going
to be the one to do it, to break the oh-so-fragile understanding between us. To
touch me the way I’ve been longing to be touched from the moment I left him in
that parking lot.

But then his eyes go blank and he’s looking through me like I’m not
even here.

Tracy Wolff collects
books, English degrees and lipsticks and has been known to forget where—and
sometimes who—she is when immersed in a great novel. At six she wrote her first
short story—something with a rainbow and a prince—and at seven she forayed into
the wonderful world of girls lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten she’d
read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local
bookstore, so in desperation her mom started her on romance novels. And from
the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she’d found her life-long love.
Now an English professor at her local community college, she writes romances
that run the gamut from contemporary to paranormal to erotic suspense.

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